


The Myers Complex

by Plania



Category: Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: 1978, Asylum, Desire, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Get Him The Coffee Lass, Get The Keys Cut Lass, Give Him The Food Lass, Hospital, Nurse - Freeform, Obsession, Reader Is A Lamb So Protect Her, Romance, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Smith's Grove, Stalking, Staring, nurse reader, patients
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-10 11:47:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17425298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plania/pseuds/Plania
Summary: After the Haddonfield 1978 Halloween Murders, Michael Myers is recaptured and taken back to Smith's Grove Sanitarium. Just in time, a young nurse hoping to advance her profession finds herself in close proximity to one of the most dangerous men in Illinois and, perhaps, the United States. However, is there more beyond the marble stare and black eyes, or will she become yet another name on the list of Michael Myers' victims?





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've never actually written a Reader-Insert type FanFiction before, but they always seem amusing to write, and they're always fun to read. So, this came to me on a cloud of inspiration whilst I was procrastinating both of my two 4,000 word assignments, as well as the 12,000 dissertation I'm supposed to have finished by the end of March. Hope you enjoy. 

**“Smith’s Grove, huh?”** the taximan inclines his head towards you with his hands, weathered and brown, clutching the wheel. “S’pose it makes sense, what with the uniform and all.”

You, sitting in the back of the car, tug awkwardly at the smooth coat you wear over the white dress required of all female nurse’s at Smith’s Grove Sanitarium. It’s your first day, a responsibility that weighs on your shoulders more so than you’d like to admit. You’d applied for the job at the beginning of June, a requested transfer that you’d soon come to regret upon hearing of the breakout of October 30th. For a moment, you had considered speaking with the higher ups to have all travel plans cancelled, but your boss back in Cook County, Illinois, had assured you that Smith’s Grove was already being put back together within a matter of days. He wasn’t keen for you to transfer, but his wife back at home had insisted on it, and you were more than happy to work far from him, a man with wandering hands and eyes.

“Surely you heard about October 30th, though?” the taximan continues, driving past thick woods that only promise dark depths and horrors within. “And the Haddonfield Massacre the next day?”

“With Michael Myers, yes,” you swallow. “I’ve read it in the papers and saw it on TV.”

“And you _still_ want to work here?” he looks at you, incredulous, in the rear-view mirror. “You’re braver than most men, Miss.”

“I believe everything is under control,” you pat down your dress, smoothing it to the perfection it had already long achieved. “The staff at Smith’s Grove have my full trust.”

“The one’s that remain,” he meets your gaze once more, as if pleading to turn back.

You keep your lips sealed, refusing to give away any sign that you doubted Smith’s Grove’s defences, or that you were afraid to go there.

“They brought him back to Smith’s Grove, you know,” the taximan says, finally focusing on the road ahead. “Michael Myers.”

“I heard that, too.”

“Braver than most men,” he murmurs. “Or seeking death. Which is it, Miss?”

“I’m sorry?” you furrow your brow.

“I think I’m more worried about this decision than you are,” the taximan chuckles. “What did the folks say about this choice of yours?”

“They were fine with it,” you reply, keeping a straight face.

‘Fine’ was an understatement by far. Your dad had waved the newspaper in your face, voice raised as he explained how horribly you were going to die. In the background, your mum had mourned the grandchildren that would never exist. They had perhaps cared _too much_ about your welfare, so you’d hid your fears even from them.

“Is that so?” he looks doubtful. “I would be gutted if any daughter of mine were to work here. But you’re not afraid, are you?”

“Of course not,” you lie. “I’m used to working with mental patients.”

Of course you’re scared. You would be foolish not to be. Just two weeks ago, Smith’s Grove Sanitarium had crumbled, its patients escaping and slaughtering the staff en masse. You have to be sceptical about how put together the facility is now, given there’s been so little time to have the security improved and building refurbished. Not only that, but with Michael Myers back at the facility, you’re aware that dangerous patients are once more residing within its walls. You’re terrified at the thought of working there, but you’ve made a choice now and there’s no time to back out of it now.

“I guess some of us have iron souls,” the taximan remarks, staring straight ahead, and it’s then that you notice the tip of Smith’s Grove come into view.

It’s bleak and grey, fenced in by a large, concrete wall with barbed wire lining the top. The gates are wrought iron, with two security guards standing on either side, guns poised to fire if need be. Beyond that hunches the facility itself, squatted down with dark windows and no promise of escape. It looks like a prison, for criminals, opposed to a safe haven for those who perceive the world differently to everyone else. This doesn’t look like a friendly place to work and you can only hope your position here is short.

“Good luck, Miss,” the taximan pulls to a slow stop, craning his head to grimace at the building. “Smith’s Grove Sanitarium.”

You give him $5. “Keep the change.”

He smiles kindly, a middle aged man who seems to be genuinely concerned for your safety. There’s a sadness in his eyes, which are a bright turquoise, the colour of shallow waters in the ocean on a sunny day. He nods his thanks and you leave the car, a thirty minute exchange between strangers over with no expectation of ever meeting again.

“Good luck, Miss,” he tells you, sympathetic. “You’ll need it.”

“Thank you,” you close the door and pull your suitcase out of the boot.

Backing away from the taxi, you softly wave as he reverses, now wearing a tight frown when he believes you can’t see his face. A brittle breeze drifts through the opening, disappearing into the woods with an anguished howl. Turning away from the crunch of tyres on gravel, you approach the two security guards standing at the iron gates of Smith’s Grove Sanitarium. Both stand straight as you near, faces straight but you can see the glimmer of life in their eyes.

“State your visit,” the first of the guards demands.

“I’m [y/n] [l/n],” you begin rifling through your handbag, searching for the document that indicated you were an official employee at Smith’s Grove Sanitarium. You hadn’t been give an ID card before arrival, so had prepared for this scenario. “I’m a new employee.”

“Worst time to start,” the other security groaned as the first inspected the paper. “Although I’m sure you’ve heard that a lot over the past two weeks.”

You nod with a smile, trying not to be awkward, but already fed up the questioning. You just want to sit down and write a letter to home to inform them of your arrival at Smith’s Grove after a simple journey from Cook to Warren County. Both security guards are young men in their twenties. You have to wonder if they worked here before the October incident.

The first security guard brings his walkie talkie to his mouth, watching you with steel coloured eyes. “Bobby, you there? Yeah, let Dr Wynn know that a Miss [l/n] is at the gate, claiming to be an employee.”

“She’s wearing the uniform,” the other guard points out, but silences himself when he receives a sharp glare.

The first security guard lowers the walkie talkie, clipping it to his bulletproof vest. “Unfortunately, Miss [l/n], we can’t just let anyone past the gates. Security breaches are taken with extreme caution at Smith’s Grove.”

“I completely understand,” you say, peering at his nametag. “Mr Hayes.”

Hayes barely acknowledges you, waiting until his speaker crackles with the sound of someone’s voice on the other side. He listens intently, ever stern, and refuses to break eye contact with you. It’s humorous, really, as if he expects you to grow to ten feet tall and begin throwing people around. It’s cold, though, so you hold your coat tight and hope that the aforementioned Dr Wynn recognises your name and gives you access.

Soon enough, a man in his early forties arrives, gangly and irate. He wears a formal suit, a carefully trimmed moustache growing on his upper lip, and neat hair that will most likely be receding in the next ten years.

“Dr Wynn, this young lady-”

“Open the gates, Hayes,” Dr Wynn barks as he comes to an abrupt halt on the other side. “What kind of courtesy are you showing Miss [l/n] by refusing her access to her workplace? Does she look like someone who’s going to smuggle a patient out?”

Hayes has the dignity to look bashful, whereas his colleague, whose nametag reads ‘Steven Marth’, offers you a knowing smirk. You can’t help but smile back at this charming young man with sandy brown hair and mischievous blue eyes that twinkle.

“Miss [l/n], a pleasure to meet you,” Dr Wynn beams excitedly once the gates have slowly moved apart, and he gleefully takes your hand to shake it. “Although the recent history of Smith’s Grove has been plagued with misfortune, it truly is inspiring that the youth of today are still inclined to join this difficult workforce.”

“The pleasure’s mine,” you reply, noting the slight dampness of sweat on his palm. A nervous disposition, or the stress of recent events?

“I take care of management at Smith’s Grove Sanitarium,” Dr Wynn explained. “Dr Terence Wynn, by the way. We spoke over the phone.”

“Yes, we did,” you manage a smile, trying to keep pace with him as begins heading towards the grey building ahead.

“Such a bright individual, graduating early from medical school,” Dr Wynn continues. “Your parents must be very proud.”

“They are,” you nod as you reach the front door, which Dr Wynn pushes open for you.

You step into a small reception, seating placed with visiting family members waiting to be called upon to meet with their loved ones. It’s a familiar scene for you and you can’t help but pity these people, who can only speak to those they care for in a controlled environment. Some patients, however, are dangerous, and precautions must take place. You understand this.

“Just leave your suitcase behind the desk,” Dr Wynn instructs with vigour. “You can come collect it once I have the chance to show you to the accommodation.”

It feels like there’s cotton stuck in your throat. You know it’s the nerves of being on the first-day, but you can’t fight the feeling away. Dr Wynn helps wheel your luggage behind the reception, before taking you through a set of doors that require a key card to enter.

“You’ll be given one of these,” he adds, holding up the white card for you to see. “Access to the whole building, apart from those that require lock and key. I suppose your primary concern at the moment is the recent health violations that took place here on October 30th. I want you to know that Smith’s Grove is not a dangerous place, Miss [l/n]. You will be safe working here.”

“Of course,” you say, taking note of the white-washed walls and tiles, of the glass slats in doors that let you look into small rooms where the patients live.

“I’m glad we have your confidence,” Dr Wynn says. “The media has certainly taken to looking down upon us, with ridiculous headlines about how we don’t lock up the facility property. Hogwash, by the way. Our staff, rules and security are all perfectly competent.”

“I didn’t doubt that for a second,” you lie through your teeth, trying to get on your employer’s good side.

“I have full faith that you’ll fit right in, Miss [l/n],” he smiles warmly. “Unfortunately, we are quite… short staffed at the moment, so you’ll be on your feet quite a lot. This includes laundry duty, feeding duty, medication duty, and personal attendance duty. Some patients don’t require the final category, given their violent tendencies, but those that are kept here for their own safety do need some exercise around the grounds, or enjoy bedtime stories. We’ll have the exact details explained to you as you gain more experience at Smith’s Grove, of course.”

‘Personal attendance’ sounds slightly ominous, although your previous workplace had been rather old-fashioned, never allowing the patients outside access. Smith’s Grove seems to have alternate treatments for those who were ill, but still had suitable social skills for public communication.

“Here’s our Reformation Theatre,” Dr Wynn pauses beside a large room.

Chairs are evenly and widely spaced apart, as well as being bolted to the ground. You peer through the glass window of the room to see a large screen display some kind of nature film.

“What happens here?” you ask, genuinely curious.

“This is something new we’re trialling with the more… _aggressive_ patients,” Dr Wynn explains uncomfortably. “We’re hoping the visuals will calm them down more and will hopefully circulate ideas about being a model citizen in their minds.”

“Sounds fascinating,” you murmur, taking in the cuffs that keep each patient attached firmly to their respective chairs.

As you gaze drifts from one cuff to the next, you come across a patient that is not watching the green film. Instead, he is staring at the door, towards you and Dr Wynn. Normally, you would say his gaze was unfocused and he was merely staring into space, but there’s a look of concentration in eyes as dark as tar. He’s just a young man, with tangled curls of dark hair, awkwardly hunched in his chair, long legs stretched out before him. There is nothing on his face; no anger, no curiosity, no confusion, nothing. When you look at him, all you can imagine is a blank slate. You want to look away, but a driving force compels you to stare back, to hold his gaze in a way you normally would never do. Staring, after all, was rude.

“Ah, yes, I wouldn’t look back if I were you,” Dr Wynn suddenly steers you away, snapping you back into focus. “He watches people, but it’s generally not a good sign.”

You walk a few paces, out of sight of the Reformation Theatre. Dr Wynn slows to a stop, before turning to you, chewing on his lower lip.

“You do know about him, right?” he asks.

“Pardon me, Sir?” you glance at him.

“Michael Myers,” he gestures towards the Reformation Theatre.

“ _That_ was Michael Myers?” you can’t help but gawk. “But he was so…”

“Young?” Dr Wynn finishes and you nod. “Most people have the same reaction. Michael is certainly one of the younger patients we house here, although he _has_ been at Smith’s Grove since he was six years old.”

“A child,” you remark.

“Yes, just a child,” Dr Wynn agrees. “Although a man, now. An incredibly strong one, at that. You needn’t worry. You shouldn’t have to come into contact with him that much for the first month until you know the ropes more.”

You breathe out a small sigh of relief that Dr Wynn doesn’t seem to hear.

“I hope you like Smith’s Grove, Miss [l/n],” Dr Wynn said, reaching a door labelled with his name. He used a key to unlock it. “Unfortunately, I would like to do a bit documentation just to sort out the legalities of working here. Although you are an official employee, this is the paperwork that will show your confirmation on whether you wish to stay or if you decide the placement isn’t for you.”

You sit across from Dr Wynn in the chair he motions towards. It’s comfy and green in colour. Dr Wynn has a plant on his desk and a plant by his door. There’s definitely a green theme, an attempt to appear environmental, perhaps, or possibly approachable. Perhaps both. He opens the top drawer and lays a thin stack of papers in front of you.

“Don’t look alarmed,” he smiles comfortingly. “A lot of them are just rules and guidelines to keep with you whilst you work here. There’s a lot to remember, so if you just read through and keep these on hand, you should be able to get the rules down to memory in no time. The paperwork is the front sheet, which I’ll take and put in your employee file.”

“You just need a signature?” you take the pen he offers you.

“Only if you want to,” Dr Wynn adds. “This isn’t the safest of jobs, although I’m sure you of all people understand this. This document is your choice on whether you acknowledge the safety risks of working at Smith’s Grove, and that you acknowledge that we have safety guidelines in place and that you promise to follow these. If you agree, sign on the dotted line.”

Your eyes travel to the bottom of the page. You already knew all of this before you were assigned to Smith’s Grove. Before the breakout, the prestige of working here was notorious. It was still a title you wanted to be able to attach to your name. Without reading the page, you place a signature at the bottom.

“Very well, then,” there’s a hint of surprise in Dr Wynn’s tone. “It’s comforting to know that you’re enthusiastic about working here, Miss [l/n].”

“You can call me [y/n],” you smile and shake his hand once he offers it. “If formalities are too awkward, that is.”

“Whatever you prefer,” he says. “In that case, I’ll show you to the accommodation and then have a work sche-”

The door flies open with violent force. You spin around in your chair, prepared to run, only to see a short man in a tanned trench coat storm into the room. His ice blue eyes burn ablaze.

“Dear God, Samuel, what are you doing here?” Dr Wynn leaps to his feet.

“Leaving retirement, that’s what,” this man, Samuel, declares. “Now that Michael is back at Smith’s Grove, I have a lot I want to discuss with him.”

“You’re not an employee here anymore, Samuel,” Dr Wynn says through gritted teeth, shooting you a brief nervous glance.

“And _you_ have a boss, _Terence_ ,” Samuel adds with a raised chin despite his short stature. “As of today, I’ve officially been re-hired to deal solely with Michael Myers. He is, after all, a familiar case to me.”

“This is ridiculous,” Dr Wynn reaches for his phone. “I’m sure this is a mistake.”

“In fact, I wish to have a conversation with him now,” Samuel paces, before clamping a hand on your shoulder. “You’ll help set up the room.”

“Pardon?” you blink, glancing between Dr Wynn and this Samuel man.

“Miss [l/n] has only started working at Smith’s Grove today,” Dr Wynn snaps. “She’s not to be working with Michael Myers until she has adjusted here.”

“If it’s experience you’re worried about, then you needn’t worry,” this other man says. “I’m a professional and dealing with Michael is the best experience you can get. A crash course, some might say.”

“You have no authority to tell her-”

“She’s signed the papers, and I’m a doctor,” the man argues. “I think I do actually have the authority to request her aid, thank you very much. Come on, girl. Up you get.”

“Don’t listen to this madman,” Dr Wynn hurriedly interjects, as you half-stand, half-sit in your seat. “Dr Loomis was a _former_ employee at Smith’s Grove, but hasn’t worked here for almost a decade.”

“And now I’m back, assigned personally to Michael Myers,” the man says. “And I can’t set up a room alone. It’s a menial task. I think she can handle it, Terence.”

“I’m more concerned for her safety,” Dr Wynn huffs.

“She’s signed the papers,” Dr Loomis repeats pointedly. “She knew what she was agreeing to when she put ink to paper. Up you get, girl.”

Flustered, you stagger to your feet. Dr Loomis is already leaving the room with a swish of his tan trench coat. You can’t help but feel a little helpless, and Dr Wynn is rubbing his temples in frustration. There’s no arguing. You _have_ signed the papers, and Dr Loomis is of higher authority to you. Meekly, you follow after the man.

“How can I help?” you ask nervously, trotting up beside him.

“Definitely new,” he grumbles. “Well, then, kid. You can start by getting me a coffee.”

You fall to stop and watch as he storms down the corridor. Dr Loomis, you come to realise, is a force of nature. You decide there and then that you have no other option but to get him a coffee.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I just finished watching _You_. It's a Netflix series and it really creeped me out! 15 age recommendation, so if you can watch it, I would highly say do so! Interesting plot and I actually really liked the characters. It's based on a book, which I didn't realise until after finishing it, so I think I might try and read that.

**You stand in the Staff Room with a steaming Styrofoam cup of coffee in hand, a little clueless about where to head next.** Your basic tour has done little to explain where Dr Loomis may have rushed off to and your own nerves are getting the better of you. You can’t help but watch as both doctors and nurses filter in and out of the room, each with a purpose and direction. You, in comparison, are clueless and lost, and each second that passes risks the coffee being cold by the time it reaches Loomis’ hands- _if_ it ever reaches Loomis’ hands.

“Hey, there, you look a little lost,” someone waves a delicate, feminine hand before your face, snapping you back into the present.

She’s a woman in her mid-twenties with rolling waves of brilliant auburn hair. She has large, brown eyes, incredibly dark, with lengthy lashes that curl ever so slightly, and a spattering of freckles across her face. She has an upturned nose you feel you have to appreciate, the bone structure of someone who ought to be in a magazine rather than a mental hospital.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” she retracts her hand abruptly, clasping her hands behind her back and giving you space. “You just looked a little lost, is all.”

Her friendly aura and matching nurse’s uniform helps relax you. “Actually, I am.”

“State a place and I’ll point you the right way,” she beams. “I’m on my break, so it’s not like I’m busy.”

“That’s so kind of you,” you breathe out an inaudible sigh of relief. “I’m looking for…”

Dr Loomis had never stated a room. You stand there, struggling to find a description that the nurse would be able to use in order to help you. Although it’s hard to find the words, you manage to spill out a small description of Dr Loomis’ instructions.

“From the stories I’ve heard from the older nurses, Loomis is a strange one,” she purses her lips together and folds her arms. “Your best bet is to look in both the visitation rooms, since Dr Loomis won’t have had an office here for about seven years, now.”

“Thank you,” you clutch the coffee cup a fraction tighter, before dipping out of the Staff Room.

Using signs, you navigate a slow path to the visitation rooms. They’re kept far away from the patient’s rooms and the hallway to reach them is accessible from the reception. Any visitors at Smith’s Grove are intended to spend as little time walking around the facility as possible, which makes sense. You can still look through the doors, however. Glass slats give you a full view of whoever’s inside, visiting friends or family. There are so many people, but none of them are Dr Loomis. Where else would he have gone if not the visitation rooms? Where was the room that had once been his office?

“Girl,” the sharp voice of Dr Loomis barks down the hallway.

Spinning around, you slosh a splash of hot coffee over the cup’s lip, flinching against the feel of it on your fingers, but determined not to drop the cup. Loomis pauses once you acknowledge him, his brows drawn together.

“What are you doing out here?” he snaps, catching the attention of passers-by, both visitors and staff.

“I-I was looking for you,” trying not to spill more coffee, you force yourself to stop shaking and begin walking after him.

“I told you exactly where I was going,” he begins striding along. For such a short man, he’s incredibly fast. “To see Michael.”

“I wasn’t sure-”

“Michael’s room, obviously,” Loomis grumbles, although you feel _you’re_ the only one who should be irritated. “I didn’t want to leave him to get impatient, but apparently the competence of Smith’s Grove’s staff has declined compared to when I worked here.”

“It’s my first day,” you try and argue. “Not even that.”

He sends you an icy glance. “Then you need to listen or learn quicker.”

Clenching your jaw, you follow Loomis all the way through Smith’s Grove, until you delve into the other half of Smith’s Grove, where the patients reside. The rooms look smaller than you’d expect, the kind of spaces that shouldn’t be inhabited by grown men and women. You suppose there are some children here, too, but there’s an infant’s wing for young offenders. As you walk through the somewhat narrow corridors, you pass by a nurse and security guard, guiding a man in his mid-thirties. He’s tall and gangly, far thinner than a man his height ought to be. Still, he smiles warmly, despite the cuffs on his wrists and the close hold the guard has on the back of his collar. You can’t help but smile back, although you have to sympathise. Whatever he may have done in the past, it seems he remains intact with his kindness.

Loomis stops before a door and unlocks with a staff ID, throwing it open to reveal a room far larger than the rest. There is plenty of space, although the furniture within is just a metal bed, a table and chair, the latter of which is placed before the window and is occupied. Two security guards stand either side of the door. You can’t help but feel a little uneasy; the amount of security in Smith’s Grove is a little unsettling, the fact that they need this after the terrifying breakout.

Sitting in the chair is a man. You recognise him from earlier, the young one with the angelic curls of dark hair, and the depthless black eyes that had bore into your very core. You press your fingers into the cup, feeling a small chill run across your body. Right now, you stand in the same room as the infamous Michael Myers, an unpredictable, derange killer capable of murdering his own sister at just six years old. In this room, he seems reduced, seated docilely and staring outside at the grounds down below. His stance is somewhat wistful, as if he wants to go outside, although you can’t see his face past the waves of hair. Despite this, he’s wearing a strait jacket, firmly fastened across his body to restrict as much movement as possible.

“Michael,” Loomis remarks, far softer than before. The change in tone is startling; this is the voice of a man talking to someone familiar: a family member or an old friend.

Michael Myers doesn’t react, not even flinching at the sound of Loomis’ voice. There’s nothing to indicate he recognises the voice of the man who he had once had frequent contact with. Loomis appears more cautious than afraid, slowly crossing the room to get closer. Automatically, you follow, coffee in hand, feeling more and more unnerved as you get nearer and nearer to Michael Myers. Although he’s wrapped up tight, you still feel terrified at the thought of being so close. What if he attacks? Is it even possible for him to attack?

“Michael,” Loomis repeats, a little firmer than before.

You watch as he wanders closer, although you yourself can’t help but fall to a stop halfway in the room. Loomis walks around so that he can look at Michael’s face. You do question what expression the Haddonfield murderer wears in that moment, although you see a flash of concern appear across Loomis’ wrinkled features. He doesn’t recoil, however, watching with close interest as Michael continues to remain seated.

“I’ve come to talk about Halloween,” Loomis continues, despite his lack of answers. “The night you attacked Laurie Strode.”

You can see the rise and fall of Michael’s shoulders as he breathes, in and out. Although the movement is subtle, you’re very nearly sure you can see the quickening of his breaths.

“Why did you do it, Michael?” Loomis questions. “After fifteen years, the moment you escaped you went straight back to Haddonfield and continued the string of murders you started with your sister.”

Now you’re definitely sure you can see an increase of breaths. Had he not been wearing the strait jacket, you can surely say he would’ve attacked Dr Loomis there and then, regardless of the security guards.

“Why the Strode girl?” Loomis keeps prodding, and you know this can’t be right. You know that force isn’t the right method.

“You’re worrying him,” the words leave your lips before you can say them.

Michael looks at you.

For a moment, the room is silent. You stand there, frozen to the spot with hot coffee in hand, whilst both Dr Loomis and Michael Myers watch for your next move. You think you saw violent rage embedded deep in Michael’s eyes, but his expression is like putty, already changed to blank nothingness. The change is so fast you’re sure you imagined it. And yet, despite Dr Loomis failing to get a reaction out of him, your voice alone has garnered the sudden attention of Michael. That isn’t a good thing. He hadn’t looked exactly pleased to see you standing there, and you know that, underneath the mask of emptiness, is a volatile man capable of single-handedly killing everyone in the room.

“Not so much worry, but more irritation,” Loomis suddenly replies, reaching for the coffee cup.

You compliantly give it, although a burst of rage fires your heart. Loomis had noticed Michael’s reactions, how his words had bothered him. What kind of a doctor badgered a reaction from a patient with a disturbed mind?

“No sugar,” Loomis gives it back to you. Apparently, he doesn’t want it.

You feel like this has been a trip wasted. Not only does Loomis dislike the coffee you made, but the patient seated before you shows no signs of remorse or any desire to reform. You didn’t come here for Michael Myers, however; you came here to escape your previous workplace. You have no mission to _change_ the men and women who reside in their walls, neither are you capable of helping them. You’re human, after all. Your true mission, the one you’ve held dear in your heart for many years now, is to make them adjust to their new lives, to feel comfortable in the environment they were made to live in. The people within the walls of each of these institutions were sick; they were confused and the world was frightening, particularly when they were treated like animals by it.

Back in 1965, when you weren’t even ten years old, your aunt had had some kind of “breakdown”, as your father called it. She had just given birth to your cousin a week ago when she began to act strange. At first, she had been written off as sulky and moody, but when she locked her newly born infant in his bedroom to take a nap in the bath, ignoring his cries for food and cleaning, your uncle had taken action. Although the details are murky after that- neither your parents nor your aunt and uncle ever speak about it- you suspect she underwent electric shock therapy at an asylum for the next three months. Despite this, whenever you see her, you are met with a warm, loving smile and soft brown eyes that bear no memory of the woman your father described.

As you stand there, looking at Michael Myers in his seat, you wonder whether he has endured the same treatments as your aunt once did. Silently, you remind yourself that that is the reason you want to help these people; to improve their life quality and help them forget the horrible memories of their past.

He turns in his seat to look out the window once more, unreadable and unresponsive.

“I think you ought to leave,” Loomis says to you. “I suspect your voice reminded him of the Strode girl, whom he has little positive memories of.”

“Of course,” you clasp your hands together, the coffee lukewarm at this point.

With a small flick of his wrist, Loomis shoos you from the room. You backtrack past the security guards and close the door on your way out. Standing in the hallway, you heave out a small sigh. Working at Smith’s Grove already seems difficult, especially since Dr Loomis is so hard to work with. Carrying your cup of coffee, which you decide to drink along the way, you navigate your way back to the office of Dr Wynn, hoping for some guidance on this awfully confusing first day. Three soft knocks and he tells you to come in.

Pushing the door aside, you wander in with heavy shoulders. Dr Wynn stands to attention the moment he catches sight of you, a look of concern appearing on his face.

“Miss [l/n], are you alright?” he asks.

“Yes,” you take a moment to process your instructions. “Dr Loomis dismissed me.”

“I see,” Dr Wynn looks troubled. “Please don’t take anything he says to heart. He can be terribly disagreeable, which has put off employees in the past.”

You nod, satisfied with the low level of comfort he can provide.

“I suppose you should like to rest,” Dr Wynn shrugged on his suit jacket. “After all, you’ve been travelling the day and your contract isn’t set to start until tomorrow, although I do appreciate you providing a little service for Dr Loomis today.”

“It was hardly anything,” you lower your head.

“Anything is something,” he says, walking around to open his office door. “We’ll collect your bag from the reception and get you to the barracks. The other nurses should be able to tell you in more detail about the rotas they have set up.”

Everything seems like an awkward blur to you as you walk through Smith’s Grove, looking at staff, patients and guests mind their own business. To them, you blend into the background, another colleague, another employee, another caretaker. Your bag is exactly where you left it, untouched and ignored, although a dusty print on the side suggests someone has nudged it aside with their boot whilst passing by. You grasp the handle with your free hand, with Dr Wynn already heading towards the front door. Your wanderings around this afternoon have led the winter hours to darken the sky a pitch black within a matter of moments, without you having noticed. Dr Wynn waves down a company golf cart, gesturing for you to step inside.

“There’s always someone on duty at the front desk in the barracks,” Dr Wynn explains. “You should be given a key to the rooms. It’s absolutely important that you don’t lose the key, for the safety of the others in the building.”

“Understood,” you nod, as the driver helps load your suitcase onto the cart.

“I hope you’re comfortable with staying on institution grounds,” Dr Wynn pauses and assesses you carefully. “I know it’s unorthodox, but after October 30th, we…”

He trails off, an uncomfortable expression appearing on his face.

“I understand, Dr Wynn,” you assure him. “Security is of utmost importance given the current situation.”

The papers had blasted off at Smith’s Groves, article after article with opinions that the institution ought to be closed down and the patients scattered across the US. This man was clutching at the straws of his job, as well as the careers of everyone else working there. That now included you, who would add your efforts to restore Smith’s Grove to its former glory.

You climb into the golf cart as Dr Wynn steps back, lifting a solemn hand into the air. It feels like an awkward farewell, even though you will be starting work tomorrow. The cart pulls away from the pavement, trundling blissfully across grey expanse of the parking lot that has a few staff vehicles dotted here and there. You understand that some members are far more local, choosing to commute still, even though Smith’s Grove has to be about half an hour from any town or city. The driver of the cart makes no effort of conversation, and you settle for that, exhausted from your long day with short intervals of action.

The barracks look just as grey and dismal as the institution itself and, when you enter after thanking the driver, the dreary brown carpets and yellowed cream walls give off the impression of the cheapest build. It reminds you of a sad little motel that could be found on the side of the highway. It’s warm inside, though, which is one of the few comforts you’ve found here. Wandering up to the front desk, a woman is seated there, minding her own business as she types on her computer. The screen glows an eerie white, which illuminates her features in all the wrong ways. When she looks up, her eyes are devoid of interest. You’re just another person standing before her.

“Hi,” you say nervously. “[y/n] [l/n]. I start work here tomorrow and was hoping to pick-”

She drops a set of keys on the desk. There’s two of them, small and coppery in colour. You lift them and inspect them, lacking all scraps and having been freshly cut, you presume. When you look back at the woman, her gaze has already returned to her computer screen.

“One for the barracks, the other for the bedroom.”

“The… barracks?” you looked down at the keys in your hand.

The woman inhales deeply, before angling herself to look at you. “One is for the corridor that leads to all the rooms where you and the other employees sleep. The other key is only for your bedroom. Lose the former and you can’t access either. Lose the latter and let’s hope your roommate is forgiving.”

“Roommate?”

She arches a particularly condescending eyebrow. “A person who shares a room with you.”

“I know what a roommate is,” you add hurriedly. “I just didn’t realise we would have roommates whilst staying here.”

“Space at Smith’s Grove is incredibly limited,” the woman turns back to the computer. “Suck it up and take it, or quit.”

It was a definite conversation ender. Awkwardly holding your keys to your chest, you make you way towards the only other door that doesn’t have an emergency exit sign above it. You end up trying both keys, before managing to push the door open. It’s stiff, that’s for sure. The corridor you enter is still relatively new, so has maintained its clean quality. There’s a large communal space, an entire common room that promises to fit up to ninety people. The kitchen is also a good size, with about three fridge-freezers to store food in. You remind yourself to have a better look later before inspecting your room number and climbing two flights of stairs to reach it.

The hallways are dimly lit with yellowed lighting, and all of the rooms look the same. The small numbers of aluminium plaques nailed to the doors are the only thing you can go by to discern between each room. When you finally find your number, you try the key you haven’t used. It doesn’t work, so you try the other key. Neither works. You spend a few minutes wiggling the first key in the lock, trying your hardest to pry the door open. It refuses to give way.

A shock of panic bursts through your veins as your neighbour’s door opens without warning. A tall, lanky woman peers out, blue eyes landing on you fiddling with the keys. She has dirty blonde hair swept up into a bun.

“Thought I heard someone outside,” she remarks. “Is this your room?”

“Yeah, I’m new,” you say. “But the key won’t work.”

“Let me see?” she offers and you step aside.

The woman follows the same process of trying to wiggle the key, as if that will help magically open the door. You stand there, patiently waiting, when all you really want to do is a have a hot shower and go to sleep. Eventually, the woman pulls the key out and inspects it closely, before clicking her tongue and shaking her head.

“Dodgy cut, I’m afraid,” she says. “You’ll have to ask for a new one. In the meantime, I shall do this…” She hands you the keys and reaches into her hair, drawing a concealed bobby pin aside, and picks the lock with alarming ease. “You’ll just have to ask your roommate to bear you in mind.”

“Where did you learn to do that?” you gawk, pushing the door aside. The room is empty. Your roommate must have a shift today.

“I would love to tell you that I had a rough past for the excitement and all, but my dad was a locksmith and taught me a couple of things here and there,” the woman lets out a short laugh. “I learnt that keys have a very similar structure to bobby pins.”

“You don’t say,” you smile and look around these four walls, the space that will be yours for the time being.

“I’m Babs, by the way,” the woman holds out her hand. “Barbara, but Babs.”

“[y/n],” you let a smile reach your face and shake her hand.

“You know, we’re making dinner later on today, about five, since they’re showing _Gone With The Wind_ on the TV,” Babs looks a little shy. “In case if you wanted to join us?”

“I’d love to,” you beam. “I haven’t seen that film in ages.”

“I’ll see you in an hour, then,” she grins, and disappears back into her room.

The door closes and you’re alone once more. As you step into your private four walls, letting the door softly shut behind you, a warmth bubbles from within. Suddenly, the promise of new friendships makes the whole experience a little less daunting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify, I do not like _Gone With The Wind_. I just felt it's something that would always be on the TV, since VHS had yet to kick in and _Grease_ had pretty much come out of the cinemas the summer of 1978. It was quite hard to research what kinds of things would pop up on TV in the 1970s, and info I came across was pretty limited. In the end, I found out that CBS had licensed _Gone With The Wind_ to screen around 20 times a year, so it seemed like one of the most likely candidates to appear for a nurses' film night in.
> 
> Despite this, I have a deep rooted hatred for the film. My mum makes the family watch it every Christmas Eve/Christmas. It was a tradition since she adores the film so much. The green screen red skies are forever ingrained in my mind, as well as that irritatingly high pitched voice of the maid (I think it's the maid or the main character). It's 4 hours long, too, and after the 1st hour, my brain often went numb. Now that I'm older, I no longer feel obliged to subject myself to watch it, so it has become a background TV noise for the atmosphere whilst mum watches it. I honestly just dislike _Gone With The Wind_ a lot. If you haven't seen it, I would definitely _not_ recommend that one.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this Fic has been out for a week and has already reached over 1,000 views. Like, that's a weird flex from me, but it's also super wild. Thanks for reading, guys, and I appreciate the support and comments I've been receiving!

**The water is warm, rolling off your leg in rivulets as you lift it above the water level.** Ripples dance all around you, a mystifying rhythm you will never be able to keep up with. The bathroom is empty, given the rest of the nurses have already showered and headed off to bed for the night. There’s a distant dripping from one of the shower heads that refuses to stop, but it only serves to relax rather than unnerve you.

The film had been more an opportunity to bond with the others than to watch the film. Although Vivien Leigh’s gorgeous red dress with its ruffles and tassels illuminated the screen, conversation had mostly been between small groups who wanted to talk about their recent plans and the events of their day. The only time everyone in the room was paying their full attention to _Gone With The Wind_ was when one nurse pointed out that Vivien Leigh had now been dead for over ten years, which had brought a few tears to some eyes and sad sighs from the others.

You had mostly conversed with Babs and her roommate, Jackie who, a long time ago, had first come to Smith’s Grove _insisting_ she be called Jacqueline and Jacqueline alone. According to Babs it was some “private school crap”. You had to laugh and, from the looks of it, Jackie had spent a lot of time coming to terms that her name would be the butt of a joke. Still, the movie had eventually come to an end. It was ten at night and plenty of people woke up at eight for early shifts or showers. That left you were you are now, soaking in the tub, glad that everyone else has now gone to bed. When you can no longer decide on whether it’s getting cold or not, you decide to just get out and call it a day. It’s better that you’re well-rested for your first day on the job, either way.

Climbing out of the bath, you grasp your towel and wrap it around your body. Smith’s Grove had plenty of towels for its employees, which were circulated through a laundrette system. Each member had sewn their initials into their towel, which you had yet to do, and often cleaned them with their closest neighbours to make a fair system. Hastily drying yourself off, you throw on the baggy pyjama shirt and bottoms to match before gathering your towel and clothes. Now that everyone has gone to bed, the barracks are deathly quiet, a little on the eerie side. Just about a mile away is a hospital for mentally ill patients. Smith’s Grove experienced a breakout just two weeks ago. Are you truly sane to be staying here?

You reach the safety of your room and finally have the chance to place your clothes in a drawer on your side of the room. This place is well stocked, a little like a university dorm room. The curtains are wide open, the lights reflecting a pale imitation of your room within, and darkness seething beyond. You close them, shutting out the night, and knock a little orange book off of your roommate’s bedside table. It’s fabric cover is worn down from a lot of use, with faded inky fingerprints on both sides. No title, no name. You pick it up off the floor and place it back where it was just as the door opens and the nurse from the Staff Room walks in. She looks just as surprised to see you as you are to see her, but then her dark eyes land on the book, with your hand retracting away from it.

“I knocked it off the table, sorry,” you rush in, hoping it’s not precious. “I really am.”

She waves a dismissive hand with a relaxed smile as she crosses the room to collect it. “No, it’s fine. It’s a scrappy old thing, anyway.”

Still, she does take it and put it underneath her pillow, as far from you as possible.

“You’re back late,” you remark, sitting on your bed.

“I have a workplan that means I work extra hours,” she explains, still in uniform. “Dr Wynn really is good to let me stay so long. He trusts me.”

The brief look she sends you is enough to tell you that you’re not yet forgiven.

“I don’t think I got your name earlier,” you say, hoping to have good relations with your roommate.

“Susan,” she says, grabbing her towel from the back of the door. “Most people call me Susie.”

“[y/n],” you say, even though she didn’t ask. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You, too,” she smiles warmly, before leaving the room.

You flop down onto your bed and blow out a breath as the door closes behind her. Although you want to rush out an apology to ward off the awkwardness, you know it’s the last thing she wants to hear about in the given moment. Instead, you admit defeat and accept you’ll have to earn Susie’s trust back. It’s the worst start to roommate friendship ever, so instead you pull your covers over your head and force yourself to drift off.

* * *

You had fallen asleep before Susie had returned, and she’s gone when you wake up the next morning. You have to push back the wave of disappointment you experience. Breakfast together might have helped lighten the mood, but it seems she wants nothing more than to avoid you for a bit. Jumping into your uniform, you throw open the curtains and bask in the crisp, but sunny morning. Although it’s bright, there’s a slight glean of frost on the concrete that indicates a brittle wind lurking beyond the safety of the indoors.

You rush downstairs and have toast for breakfast. Since you don’t recognise anyone, you don’t feel pressured to remain for too long. Scarfing down your breakfast reminds you of all of high school mornings when you had to rush a morning routine in order to get to registration on time. You’re about to run off back to the hospital when you remember to pop to the front desk. There’s a different woman on duty, one who looks a little perkier in comparison to the evening shift receptionist.

“Hello, what can I do for you?” she asks brightly.

“My key doesn’t work for my room,” you wrestle the thing from the chain. “I was hoping I might be able to get a new cut.”

“Sure, no problem,” the woman takes slides it over and stores it away. “It may take a few days to send out and get back, though. If I can take your name, then we can put it in your pigeon hole.”

“[y/n] [l/n],” you say with furrowed brows. “Sorry, but what do you mean by ‘pigeon hole’?”

“I’m sorry,” she chuckles before pointing across the room. “Mail boxes, essentially, for each staff member living here. The postman closes it when there’s something inside, so I recommend you leave it open when there’s nothing there. Given your room key, you’ll be locker 22B.”

“Thank you very much,” you smile, relief flooding through you. Although there’s a short wait, you don’t have to worry about the message being lost. This woman seems to care about her job more so than her evening counterpart.

“Have a nice day,” she beams, returning to her computer screen as you leave.

Before charging away, however, you do check your pigeon hole, mostly out of curiosity. There’s a small envelope inside with “Miss [l/n]” scribbled on the front. Opening it up, you find a scrawled handwritten letter from Dr Wynn apologising for forgetting to give it to you and, accompanying the letter, a Smith’s Grove employee ID card. With a smile, you throw the envelope away and stuff the letter in your pocket, a nice souvenir to remember your first day. You waste no more time after that. Any more dawdling and you’ll be late.

It is cold outside, just as you had anticipated. There’s also no golf carts within view, so you decide to walk it. If there’s a shuttle bus, then you’ve missed it. It’s a ten, or fifteen, minute walk; it truly doesn’t bother you. Besides, the cold air on your face wakes you up, despite the time you spent worrying in bed on how to properly apologise to Susie. Did you even need to apologise, or was this something you were never supposed to mention ever again?

As you reach the front entrance, you see a new set of faces waiting for appointments with their loved ones. Again, a wave of sadness washes over you, the thought of being locked away from your family and friends, only able to speak with them in an enclosed space with eyes watching your every movements. You wonder if these people hold the fleeting hopes that those they care for will one day be allowed to walk free? Some have light in their eyes, others a worn down fatigue that indicates they’ve been coming for years.

The memory of yesterday is stuck in your mind, so finding the Staff Room isn’t difficult. If Smith’s Grove is anything like your previous workplace, then you should expect the work rota to be here. If not, a visit to Dr Wynn’s office was probably necessary. Sure enough, the rotas are present, blackboards with everyone’s surnames and first initials written down. You’re on meal duty today, which means your shift will last from eight to six. It’s a hefty amount of hours, separated with art classes for mental patients who are less volatile.

You’ve seen the cafeteria, so the kitchens must be connected to that part of the building. If this is the case, finding the patients’ meals won’t be so difficult. Your white plimsols make a satisfying tap as you take each careful footsteps to your destined location. There’s an air of freedom about working here, an expected independence of the employees in order to make the system function efficiently. That works best for you; no length tutorials or introductions or pointless sessions that eek the hours out of your day. The cafeteria is a room designed for patients who are non-violent towards others. It’s a chance to socialise or stretch their legs, a healthy invention where patients are watched by staff as they eat meals. The deliveries go to patients who aren’t supposed to be in the public eye, for temporary or permanent reasons.

There are groups of patients eating breakfast already. A nurse attends to each patient, and some patients need help lifting their forks to their mouths. It’s both a sad and endearing sight. Behind the counter are a group of young women, hurriedly doling food with netting caps stretched over their heads. As you approach the counters, a short woman in her fifties raises her head with slight interest.

“You on rota?” she asks, voice rough from years of cigarettes.

“Yes, I am,” you smile brightly, and take a piece of paper she hands you.

On it is a long list of names. They’re not in alphabetical order, but are categorised by the room numbers each patient lives in. Some are listed as “FEED”, others have the word “WATCH” written beside them.

“The tray’s round the back,” she explains. “If you follow me, I’ll show you the other exit door that leads back into the hallways.”

You nod, folding the paper up and putting it in the pocket of your cardigan. Slipping past the counter, you follow the woman through a bustling and busy kitchen. It’s a little on the warm side, with people brushing past you, and a slight sweat has already formed on your skin by the time you reach the back of the kitchens, which are cool and slightly breezy in comparison. A large tray with compact disposable trays in packaging awaits you. It looks a little daunting, especially with the small woman standing beside it.

“If you come by at twelve, the lunch trolley should be ready,” the woman continues. “Five thirty for dinner.”

“Thank you,” you approach the cart, assessing the multitudes of trays before you.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” the woman asks.

“I am, yes.”

“In that case, there are some patients you need to feed by hand and others you need to watch over whilst they eat,” the cook says. “It’s all for safety precautions, as I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course,” you murmur.

“All the information is on the sheet,” she waves a dismissive hand. “Although, if you _do_ get confused, ask another nurse.”

She leaves without waiting for your response. You grasp the trolley’s handle and heave it with great effort. As expected, it’s heavy. Pushing it through double doors, you soon realise that the process of visiting each patient will take a long time. You assess the paper, relieved that you only have one floor to handle, and assume other members of staff deal with other floors. Wheeling the cart through the hallways is made harder when you have to avoid hitting other people. They don’t just move, either, sometimes splitting ways to disappear through doors when you least expect it, causing an emergency stop. It’s a little frustrating, to say the least, but you do manage to find the rooms in which you deliver food.

You’ve brought patients their food before and, whilst you’re used to the process of watching them eat, you’ve never been assigned the duty of feeding patients unable to care for themselves. It’s eye-opening, sitting beside someone with vacant eyes and paled skin, who automatically opens their mouth as you move the spoon closer. It’s these people who your heart goes out to the most. Unable to care for themselves, their families were likely forced to send them to Smith’s Grove. They’re harmless, essentially, unless provoked. Some acknowledge you, but the greater number of “FEED” patients are disinterested in your movements and barely pay you any of their precious attention.

The “WATCH” patients are far more familiar in comparison. They are either individuals who are prone to harming themselves on purpose or accident, and therefore need close inspection so that any movement that was out of place could be halted before disaster occurred. On the other end of the spectrum are the patients that could potentially harm other people. Security guards always accompany you for those patients, just in case if a hostile atmosphere develops that puts you under threat. Fortunately, that doesn’t happen, but this is your first day and you have experienced attempted violence in the past. Unperturbed, you go on.

One of the “WATCH” characters in particular reels you in with his charisma to accompany his slow-eating habits. Richard Dove, his name is, and you do remember passing him in the corridors yesterday. He’s a man in his early thirties, with dishevelled brown hair and greyish-green eyes. He’s incredibly pale, with dark loathsome shadows beneath his eyes and faint marks littering the skin of his arms. He’s not the kind of man you would expect to hone people skills, but he works you in magnificently, telling you about his wife and daughter. You’ve never read his case file. That’s not your business or responsibility, but a security guard does stand in the corner of the room, alert. Richard Dove isn’t as harmless as he presents himself to be, although you don’t let on that you are aware of this.

“You’re not from Warren County, though, are you?” he asks, idly scraping his plastic fork through the scrambled eggs that have long since gone cold. “Illinois, or not at all?”

It’s unwise to tell a patient where you live, you know this. “Illinois.”

“No county, huh?” he arches an eyebrow. “I’m not really interested, you know. It’s polite conversation, especially since I’ll see a lot of you from now on, Nurse…” His eyes briefly scan your nametag. “[l/n].”

“I’m sure we will,” you respond.

“You talk a lot more than the other nurse ever did,” Richard spoons a mouthful of eggs and talks with his mouth full. “She was a miserable bitch. You have to wonder why some people work in these places when they clearly despise it. You don’t, though, do you?”

“Not at all,” you say, trying your hardest to reveal as little as possible.

“Give it a few weeks,” Richard tells you it. “Soon enough, you’ll just be like the rest of us: glued to a routine and slowly coming to resent it. It’s boredom that drives people to their worst natures, for sure. Once you see the same faces, have the same conversations and eat the same food, it all becomes a repetitive blur until your life comes to an end.”

“That’s a rather pessimistic view,” you remark softly.

“And you’re an optimist, working in a place like this?” Richard smirks.

“More of a realist, truth be told,” you admit. “If you look at things how they are, then there’s no need to exaggerate them.”

He leans back in his seat and actually ponders your words. “I guess that’s a fancy way of saying you’re on the fe-”

“Five more minutes left,” the security guard cuts in. “If you haven’t finished your meal by then, Miss Nurse will take your tray and you’ll have to go hungry until lunch.”

Of course, each visit had a maximum time of twenty minutes. Some patients genuinely were slow at eating, although Richard clearly wants to run his mouth for as long as time will allow him. He narrows his eyes, glowering at the security guard through his lashes, but he does focus on his food after that. The look he gives you when he hands over his tray says it all: routine and resentment. An intelligent man locked within his own mind, although there’s very little _you_ can do about it.

You bring breakfast to another few patients on the list, until the next name on your list brings you to a stop in front of Room 132. A small chill runs along your spine, but you brace yourself when you see the security guard outside the door. Nodding towards him, you follow him into Room 132, the four walls that house Michael Myers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, Reader encounters Michael properly for the first time, sans Loomis!


End file.
